Jasmine
by ink and ashes
Summary: Calming and uplifting, warms the emotions. Relieves pain. Restores joy. Beautifies. Brings out the charisma in people - Michael, Liz and the scent of jasmine. Drabble.


******NOTES: **Written for the prompt 'Jasmine' over on the Polar Attractions board. Figured I'd post it here, too.

**JASMINE**

He didn't know what he was doing here.

It was late, he knew, though the exact hour was a mystery. The moon was high, the stars were out and most of Roswell's good little boys and girls were all neatly tucked into their beds, where they'd sleep the night away until their alarms belched in the morning for school, work, or whatever reason humans set alarms.

Lucky bastards.

As a hybrid, he only needed two hours of slumber to reinvigorate his mind and body. Four, if he decided to skip a few days. Humans, on average, needed six to eight hours, which was a waste of valuable time, in his opinion. What kind of race spent a third of their life sleeping? What was the point? After a handful of decades, their bodies would deteriorate and die anyway, so what kind of sense did that make?

"Michael?"

He froze, caught off his guard. What the _hell_ was he doing here?

"Michael?" repeated sleep-softened voice. A head of tousled brown hair poked out of her window. Her eyes were huge, larger than normal. "What are you doing here? Is everything all right?"

He stared at her for a moment. Stalling, he raked a hand through his hair, scratching at the nape of his neck. What was he supposed to say? _I had a nightmare about killing Pierce. Over and over and over again. Only, it wasn't Pierce, it was _you_._ _Now I'm here because I have no fucking clue why_. "Yeah," he mumbled, annoyed at himself. This was so stupid. He should have just taken a peek to make sure she was okay and left before she'd had the chance to find him. How was he going to explain this inexplicable need to see her? He _knew _it was just a dream, _knew_ that he'd never hurt her, but it hadn't stopped him from hoofing it across town to climb onto her balcony like some kind of stalker.

Like _Max_.

He rubbed a hand over his face, disgusted.

_Oh, how far the mighty have fallen._

At his sustained silence, she crawled onto the veranda, a blanket secured around her small shoulders. She seemed confused, uncertain. He couldn't blame her. When was the last time he'd ever been alone with Elizabeth Parker? _Willingly_? "Are you okay, Michael?" She blinked owlishly, tilting her face to look up at him.

"Yeah," he said, distracted. She was pretty when she wasn't mooning over Max, or annoying the living fuck out of… _anyone_. He tried to imprint this image in his mind, superimposing this living, breathing version of Liz over the mangled, _dead_ version that kept haunting him every time he closed his eyes; this Liz was flushed and warm and wonderfully _alive_. A bit on the thin side, perhaps, with dark circles under her eyes, but she wasn't a bloody smear on the wall and that made her fucking _beautiful_ right now. "Just, uh…" He should go. He should tuck tail and get the hell out of here before he made an even bigger ass of himself. "Couldn't sleep," he finished awkwardly. It wasn't necessarily a lie, but it wasn't the truth, either. Not entirely.

"Oh." She tucked a few wisps of hair behind her ear. "Wanna talk about it?"

That would be a _fuck_ no. "No, thanks."

"Oh." She seemed as nervous as he felt. "Okay."

This was so supremely screwed up. Just last week, they'd discovered their destiny and Liz had walked away from them without a single backward glance. He distinctly remembered telling Max to let her go, a reluctant pride simmering in his chest for Liz, who had been strong enough to understand that the hybrids had shit to do and did not need distractions. Max had been a sullen, depressed little puppy for the past few days, with Michael yelling at him to "grow a fucking pair" because Michael would be _damned_ if they were going to endanger their only purpose, their _mission_, by chasing after a piece of ass.

And yet, here he was. Granted, he had no intention of getting into Parker's pants—shorts, rather, and really fucking tiny, not that he was looking—but he was distracted by a human nonetheless.

"You…" she glanced at her window before meeting his gaze, shivering in the cool breeze. "You, um… want to come inside?"

No. _Hell_ no. "Sure." _Damn it._

Against his better judgment, he followed her, careful to tread softly upon the hardwood floor; the last thing he needed was Daddy Parker barging in to find Michael slinking into his daughter's room in the middle of the night. He'd get castrated and fired in a heartbeat. As he crept closer to the mattress, he spied a few blocks of luggage sitting in the corner of her room, zippered and full. "What's with the bags?" he asked before he could think better of it.

Liz closed the window and moved quickly to snuggle beneath the covers. She must have been cold. "I'm going to visit my aunt in Florida for the summer."

Translation: _I'm getting the fuck away from you people for a while_. "When?"

"My flight leaves at noon."

He dug his hands into his pockets, standing awkwardly by her bed. She was already drifting off, yawning wide before she could cover her mouth. A glance at the clock told him it was a little after two in the morning. "Look, I'm just gonna go." He should have done so in the first place, but his head was on backwards tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever it was.

She pulled back the quilt, patting the empty spot next to her. "Max told me you used to stay at his place sometimes," she said.

His hackles rose. Where was she going with this? "Your point?"

She patted the bed again. "Take your shoes off, please."

He was instantly uncomfortable. "I—"

"Either you get in, or you get out," she grumbled at him, tired eyes glaring. Her voice was too low, too soft for yelling, but her words hit him hard. "I have no idea what could have driven you to my doorstep and, quite frankly, I don't care. I promise I won't murder you in your sleep, or cuddle with you, or any of those other _scary_ things we lowly humans are infamous for." She leaned back against her pillows, her eyelids closing. "Make up your mind. I don't have all night."

He found himself toeing off his shoes, shrugging off the light jacket he'd thrown on in his rush to get here. It was insane to even entertain the notion of sleeping next to Liz, but her use of the word _murder_ made his skin crawl. Made him remember the betrayal on her face when he killed her. _Over and over and over… _He winced at the little creaks her mattress made when he finally slid under the blanket, slightly uncomfortable in his sweatpants and shirt, though the alternative—sleeping in his boxers, as was his preference—was completely out of the question. Why had he even taken her up on her offer? It wasn't as if he could actually close his eyes, not with his brain running a mile a minute. On the positive side, the sheets were still warm from her body heat and it smelled nice. _She _smelled nice. Reassuring. Soft, sweet, like flowers.

_Jasmine_, he remembered, snorting. Maria and her damned aromatherapy. He remembered that particular vial and the scent associated with it, as well as the library of crap Maria had drilled into his brain in the short duration of their relationship. _Jasmine. An antidepressant. Historically known as an aphrodisiac and used in love potions. __Calming and uplifting, warms the emotions. Relieves pain. Restores joy. Beautifies. Brings out the charisma in people. _

Charisma. Sure.

Still, at least she didn't have that weird odor that smelled like stale morning on his tongue. He _hated_ that smell.

"Good night, Michael," came the gentle murmur.

He was surprised to feel himself sinking into the mattress, relaxing. If he were honest, there were worse prospects than sharing a bed with Elizabeth Parker.

"Night."

In spite of his earlier reservations, Michael dozed off, her redolence easing the tension from his limbs.


End file.
